Flipped
by Ariannah360
Summary: [Based on the book] They first met at the age of seven. Boomer was horrified. Bubbles was smitten. However, now in eighth grade, their feelings for each other seem to flip in a way they never thought possible. Blues, slight Reds and Greens.
1. Chapter 1

**Title –** Flipped

**Summary – **[Based on the book] They first met at the age of seven. Boomer was horrified. Bubbles was smitten. However, now in eighth grade, their feelings for each other seem to flip in a way they never thought possible.

**Pairing(s) – **Blues (with sprinkles of Reds and Greens)

**Rating – **T, because of _slight_ cursing.

**Status –** Multi-Chapter; Ongoing

**Important Notes –** I definitely recommend this book. It's the most awesome, relatable, sad, romantic, and comedic story ever. I have to give **kuku88** some credit because she previewed a new story based on a different book and I've had _this_ idea in my mind for quite a while; she just inadvertently reminded me of it. THANK YOU.

-Also, be sure to know that some scenes and dialogue had been altered to fit the characters' personalities. But the events in general will be the same.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own the Powerpuff Girls or Flipped. Craig McCracken and Wendelin Van Draanen do.

**1 – Diving Under**

**BOOMER**

All I've ever wanted is for Bubbles Utonium to leave me alone. For her to back off – you know, give me some _space_.

Bubbles Utonium was the most energetic girl I'd ever known. With her vivacious blue eyes and bouncy pigtails, it seemed as if nothing in the world could get her down.

It all began the summer before second grade when my brothers and I first acquainted ourselves with the city of Townville. And since now we're about done with _eighth _grade, that, my friend, makes about a freaking decade I've had to put up with her.

Don't get me wrong now; she didn't just _barge_ into my life. She barged and shoved and wedged her way into my life. Did we invite her to get into our moving van and start climbing all over the boxes? No! But that's exactly what she did, taking over and showing off her proclaimed bubbly cuteness like the one and only Bubbles Utonium can.

Our dad attempted to stop her. "MISCREANT CHILD!" Mojo shouts, trying to catch her as she practically catapults herself on board. "Such foolishness! And you're soiling the floors with mud!" That was true. Her shoes were, like, caked with the stuff.

Of course, she didn't hop out like I was hoping. Instead, she plopped her rear end on the floor and started pushing out a big box with her feet. "Don't you want some help?" She glanced my way. "It sure looks like you _need_ it." My brothers snickered from outside the van. I scowled.

I didn't like the implication. And even though Mojo had been throwing me the same look all week, I could tell he didn't like this girl either. "Gah! Don't mess with my possessions!" he warned her. "There are very valuable things in there that I'm sure such a tiny brain like yours would not be able to comprehend becau –"

"Alright, pops," Brick cut him off, appearing in the doorway. "I think the blondie gets it. Why don't cha leave the two alone for some private time?" He and Butch cackled at me as my face turned a deep scarlet. I scowled even harder but continued to remain quiet.

"What? Of course not!" Mojo said. Bubbles seemed not to hear everything that was just said and moved towards another box. "What about this one?" she asks, pointing at the box and looking my way again.

"NO, NO, NO," Mojo says loudly and then pulls her up by her arms. "Now run along home you ignorant pest. Your mother is probably worried, now isn't she?"

This was the beginning of my soon-to-become-acute awareness that this girl cannot take a hint. Of any kind. Does she zip on home like a kid should when they've been invited to leave? No. She smiles cutely and says, "Oh, I don't have a mother. I have a father and two sisters, though. They know where I am." Then she points across the street to a large white house with three holes for windows and says, "We just live riiiight over there."

Mojo follows her pointed direction and grumbles, "Curses." He looks at me and nods his head to the side, "Boomer, isn't it time for you to go inside and help your brothers?"

I knew right off that this was a ditch play. And I didn't think about it until later, but ditch wasn't a play I'd run with my dad before. Face it, pulling a ditch is not something discussed with dads. It's, like, against parental law to tell your kid it's okay to ditch someone, no matter how annoying or irritatingly innocent they might be.

But there he was, putting the play in motion, and man, he didn't have to say it twice. I smiled for the first time that morning and said, "Sure thing!" I jumped off the lift gate and headed for my new front door. I was slightly surprised at what I saw.

On the front lawn, Butch was playing and digging through the mud with a girl about our age that had chin length black hair and lively green eyes a few shades lighter than his. They were laughing huskily and the girl's green dress was completely ruined.

I couldn't say the same for the next girl, however. She had long red hair pulled up by a hairclip and a big floppy red bow and competitive pink eyes. She and Brick were seemingly immersed in a deep conversation, but I could tell she was really irritated with his smugness. She crossed her arms and glared at him and he only simpered arrogantly in response.

I was snapped out of my observations when I heard _her_ running after me. I couldn't believe it. Maybe it just sounded like she was chasing me; maybe she was just skipping on back home. But before I got up the nerve to look, she basically blasted right past me, grabbing my arm and yanking me along.

This was too much. I planted myself and was about to tell her to get lost when the weirdest thing happened. I was making this weird windmill motion to break free of her grasp, but somehow on the downswing my hand ended up tangling in hers. I could not believe it. There I was, holding this yucky girl's hand!

I tried to shake her off, but she clamped tight and yanked me again, saying, "C'mon!"

Unfortunately, my brothers witnessed it. All of it. They got what had to be the most annoying, stupid grins on their faces when they looked at us. The other two girls soon followed suit.

"This is too cute," Butch commented teasingly. The dark haired girl laughed, nodding her head, "So Bubbles, who's your new friend? Or should I say _boyfriend_?"

The team of four broke out in titters. I wanted to kill myself so badly. That was it. I officially hated my brothers and these unnamed girls.

"Well," the redheaded girl said, "I see your brother's met our sister." I had a feeling I'd hate their entire family by that evening.

The two girls walked up to me. "I'm Blossom and this is Buttercup," the redhead said, pointing at herself and then the brunette. Buttercup smirked at me, "I have a feeling we're all gonna get along _just_ peachy."

I gulped. This girl scared the crap outta me already. I dived in behind my brothers and glared at the three girls. That's when Mojo came out. He walked towards us boys, looking confusedly at the girls and giving me a questioning look as if saying "What the hell went wrong?"

He was disappointed in me. I could tell. He sighed, shaking his head and turned to the ever-so-happy blonde of the female trio, who happened to be grinning at me quite creepily. Oh God, no. He wouldn't, I thought to myself.

"Well, Boomer, would you mind showing this nuisance of a child around the premises of our home?"

Damn. He would. My brothers sneered and stepped aside so I was now in full view of _everyone_. The bastards.

Bubbles would've tramped right in if Mojo hadn't have noticed her muddy shoes and demanded she either burn them or take them off. And after those were off, Mojo told her that the dirty socks were also a no-no. Bubbles wasn't embarrassed. Not one bit. She just peeled them off and stepped inside our house, leaving them in a crusty heap on our porch.

I didn't exactly give her a tour. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom. And after about ten minutes of yelling back at her that no, I wasn't coming out anytime soon, things got quiet out in the hall. Another ten minutes went by before I got the nerve to peek out the door.

No Bubbles.

Well, freakin' hallelujah. I snuck out, looked around, and yes! She was gone. Not a very sophisticated ditch, but hey, I was seven.

My troubes were far from over, though. Every day she came back, over and over again. "Can Boomer play?" I could hear her asking from my hiding spot behind the couch. "Is he ready yet?" One time she even cut across the yard and looked through the window. I spotted her in the nick of time and dove under my bed, but man, that right there tells you something about Bubbles Utonium. She's got no concept of personal space. No respect for privacy. The world is her playground, and watch out below – Bubbles is on the slide.

Lucky for me, Mojo was willing to run block. And he did it over and over again. He told her I was busy or sleeping or just plain gone. I'd never loved him more than I did in those days.

My brothers, on the other hand, tried to sabotage me any chance they got. They think that just because they're a few minutes older than me, they're the shit. They've both got ANTOGONIZE written all over them. Just look at either of 'em – not even cross-eyed or with your tongue sticking out – and you've already started an altercation.

I used to wrestle with 'em, but it's just not worth it anymore. Neither of them fights fair. They pulled my hair and when I went gasping to Mojo about how I tried to defend myself, I got a time-out. I mean, of course, because it's _SO FAIR._

I think they had a thing for those girls when we were that age. Which was weird, considering they supposedly "hated" girls back then. But when I look at it a little closer, Brick probably teases that redhead, Blossom, because he thinks she's pretty or smart and Butch gets "down n' dirty", as he says, with the brunette, Buttercup, because he'd never met such a girl like her.

It's still disgusting to me either way. Anyways, true to form, Brick and Butch tried to bait me with Bubbles those first few days. They even snuck her in past Mojo, which I honestly saw coming, and marched around the house searching for me. I wedged myself on the top shelf of my closet and, lucky for me, none of them looked up. A few minutes later, I heard Mojo's annoyingly advanced speech yelling at her to "exclude her filthy self from the house." I didn't completely disagree with that statement.

I don't think I went outside that first whole week. I helped unpack stuff, watched TV, and hung around with my brothers while Mojo nagged about our laziness and how he never gets any appreciation for his hard work.

Believe me, I was dying to go outside, but every time I checked the window, there was Bubbles showing off in her yard. She'd be jumping rope or trying, emphasis on _trying_, to play soccer with Buttercup or planting flowers. And when she was busy showing off, she'd just sit on the curb with the jump rope draped around her waist like a belt and stare at our house.

Butch, of all people, didn't understand why I was acting like "such a prick" because that girl across the street held my hand. Brick also thought I should go for her. "Don't you like soccer?" he asked me one day, "Why don't you and Butch go on a double date with those two girls for a round?"

Because I didn't wanna be kicked around, that's why. And although I couldn't say it like that at the time, I had enough sense at age seven and a half to know the Bubbles Utonium was dangerous.

Unavoidably dangerous, as it turns out. The minute I walked into Ms. Keane's second grade classroom, I was dead meat. "Boomer!" Bubbles squeals, "You're _here_." Then she charges across the room and tackles me.

Ms. Keane tried to explain this attack away as a "welcome hug", but man, that was no hug. That was front-line, take-'em-down tackle. I'll admit, I was a little impressed that such strength could be carried in girl a small as her. And even though I shook her off, it was too late. I was branded for life. Everyone jeered.

"Where's your _girlfriend, _Boomer?"

"Are you _married_ yet, Boomer?"

And then she chased me around at recess and tried to lay _kisses_ on me. Goddamn _kisses_. Basically the entire school started chanting, "Boomer and Bubbles sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

My first year in Townsville was a disaster.

Third grade was not, by any means, better. She was still hot on my trail every time I turned around. Same with fourth. But then in fifth grade, I took action.

It started out slow – one of those Nah-that's-not-right ideas you get and then forget. But the more I played with the idea, there more I thought, what better way to ward Bubbles off? What better way to say, "Bubbles, I'm just _not_ into you"? And so, my friend, I hatched the plan.

I asked Princess Morbucks out.

To fully appreciate the brilliance of this, you must understand that Bubbles _hates_ Princess with a passion. It never got to me why, though. Princess is rich and friendly and she's got a lot of hair. What's not to like, right? But Bubbles hated her, and I was gonna make this gem of knowledge the solution to all of my Bubbles-related problems.

What I was thinking was that Princess would eat lunch at our table and we'd walk around together. That way, whenever Bubbles was around, all I had to do was hang a little closer to Princess and things would just naturally take care of themselves. When _happened_, though, was that Princess took things way too seriously. She went around telling everybody – including Bubbles – that we were in love.

In no time, Princess and Bubbles got into a little spat, but Bubbles, being the pacifist she is, didn't do much damage to Princess. Physically, at least. And while Princess was recovering from that, my supposed friend Mitch – who'd totally been behind the plan from the start – told her what I was up to. He's always denied it, but I've learned that his code of honor is easily corrupted by weepy females.

That afternoon the principal tried cross examining me, but I wouldn't cop to anything. I just said that I was sorry and I really didn't understand what happened. Finally, she let me go.

Princess cried for days and followed me around sniffling and making feel like a real jerk, which was worse than having Bubbles as a shadow.

Everything blew over at the one week mark, though, when Princess officially dumped me and started going out with Kyle Larsen. Then Bubbles started up with the goo-goo eyes and I was back to square one.

Now, in sixth grade things changed, though whether they improved is hard to say. I don't remember Bubbles actually chasing me around in the sixth grade. But I do remember her sniffing me.

Yes, my friend, I said sniffing.

And you can blame that on our teacher, Mr. Paulsen. He stuck Bubbles to me like glue. Mr. Paulsen has got some doctorate in seating arrangements or something, because he analyzed and scrutinized and basically baptized the seats we were to sit in. And of course he decided to seat Bubbles right next to me.

Bubbles Utonium was never considered smart to me. That was, until she suddenly became a freaking Einstein in our class. Granted she wasn't as smart as her 147-IQ sister, but she was smart. And she made sure everyone in the class knew that.

However, there was one plus side to her sitting next to me. See, Bubbles' perfect answers, written in perfect cursive, were right across the aisle, just an eye-shot away. You wouldn't believe the number of answers I snagged from her. I started getting A's and B's on everything! It was awesome!

But then Mr. Paulsen pulled the shift. He had some new idea for "optimizing positional longitude and latitude." And when the dust finally settled, I was sitting right in front of Bubbles Utonium.

This is where the sniffing comes in. That maniac started leaning forward and _sniffing_ my hair. She'd edge her nose practically up my scalp and _sniff-sniff-sniff._

I tried elbowing and back-kicking. I tried scooting the chair farther away and putting my backpack between me and my seat. Nothing helped. She'd just scoot up, too, or lean a little more and _sniff-sniff-sniff_.

I finally asked Mr. Paulsen to move me, but he wouldn't do it. Something about not wanting to disturb the delicate balance of educational energies.

Whatever. I was stuck with her sniffing. And since I couldn't see her perfectly penned answers anymore, my grades took a dive. Especially in spelling.

Then one time, during a test, Bubbles is in the middle of sniffing my hair when she notices I've blown a spelling word. A lot of words, actually. Suddenly the sniffing stops and the whispering starts. At first I couldn't believe it. Bubbles Utonium cheating? But sure enough, she was spelling words for me, right in my ear.

Bubbles'd always been sly about sniffing, which really bugged me because no one ever noticed. But she was just as sly about giving me answers, which I believe in anyone's book is A-Okay. The bad thing about it was that I started counting on her spelling answers. Why study when you don't have to, right? But after a while, taking all those answers started making me feel indebted to her. How can you tell someone to bug off or quit sniffing you when you owe them? It's, you know, wrong.

So I spent the sixth grade somewhere between uncomfortable and unhappy, but I kept thinking that next year, _next_ year, things would be different. We'd be in junior high – a big school, with lots of different classes. It'd be a world with too many people to ever worry about seeing Bubbles Utonium again.

It was finally, _finally_ going to be over.

**2 – Flipped**

**BUBBLES**

The first day I met Boomer Jojo, I flipped. Honestly, one look at him and I became a lunatic. It's his eyes. Something in his eyes. They're cerulean blue, framed by his dark lashes. They're dazzling. Absolutely breathtaking.

It's been over six years now, and I've learned long ago to hide my feelings – somewhat – but oh, those first days. Those first years! I thought I'd die for wanting to be with him.

Two days before the second grade is when it started, although the anticipation began weeks before – ever since my father, the Professor, had told me that there was a family with three boys my age moving into the new house conveniently across the street.

Soccer camp for Buttercup had ended, but she still had no time to play with me. Blossom had taken a summer course, though I'm not even sure that was allowed for second graders. Oh well. We all know the overachiever she was and still is.

Of course, there were other kids. But those kids were all at least a few years older than me. No one had time for the "baby of the town."

The Professor was there, but he was kooked up in his lab, performing experiments for his night course as he was redoing college. At the time, I didn't think there was anything better than being outside, playing sports, and just letting my energy run out.

I loved gymnastics. I still do. But the Professor disagreed with the authenticity of that sport. The bad thing about being home alone with my single dad is that he'd recruit me to do most of the chores around the house. He claimed it was "because I'm a young woman" and he'd lecture me, "How are you ever going to get married if you can't do simple things such as the dishes?"

At first, I thought it was a bit sexist and unfair, but seeing how much he did so much work around the house when me and my sisters weren't there, I eventually realized that I needed to help out. I stopped complaining about it after a while, but I still didn't like doing it.

So anyways, to play safe I waited outside for weeks, just in case the new family moved in early. Literally. It was _weeks_. I entertained myself by attempting to play soccer – seriously, that ball would not cooperate – with the town's talking dog. Most of the time he'd just block because a dog can't kick or score, but he would dribble the ball a little with his nose. The scent of a ball must really overwhelm a dog because the dog would even try and chomp it, but then lose it to me.

When the Jojos' moving van finally arrived, everyone in my family was happy. "Little Bubbles" would finally have a playmate.

My father, being the truly sensible man he was, made me wait more than an _hour_ before going over to meet them. "Give them a chance to stretch their legs, Bubbles," he said. "They'll want some time to adjust." He wouldn't even let me watch from the yard. "I know you, sweetie. Somehow Buttercup's soccer ball will _mysteriously_ end up in their front lawn and you'll just _have_ to get it back."

So I watched from the window. Every few minutes I'd look up at him and ask, "Now?" and he'd respond, "Give them a little while longer, would you?"

Then the phone rang. The minute I was sure he was good and preoccupied, I tugged on the sleeve of his lab coat and asked again, "Now?"

He nodded and said, "Okay, but take it easy. I'll be over there in a minute."

I was too excited not to charge across the street, but I did try very hard to be civilized once I got to the van. I stood outside looking in for a record breaking amount of time. Which was hard because there he was! About halfway back! My new sure-to-be best friend, Boomer Jojo.

Boomer wasn't doing much of anything. He was more hanging back, watching his dad, who was very unusually hairy, move boxes onto the lift gate. I could see two other boys who I assumed were his brothers in the front yard looking through some of the boxes that were already taken out, but they didn't interest me much.

I remember feeling sorry for Mr. Jojo because he looked exhausted, moving all the boxes by himself. I also remember that he was wearing this tall, striped hat which I thought was really cute. It looked incredibly silly on him. Almost made me giggle.

When I couldn't stand it anymore, I called an eager "Hi!" into the van, which made Boomer jump and hastily start pushing a box as if he'd been working all along.

I could tell from the way he was acting so embarrassed that he was supposed to be moving boxes, but he was sick of it. He'd probably been moving things for days! It was easy to see that heeded to rest. He needed juice! Something.

It was also easy to see that Mr. Jojo wasn't about to let him quit. He was gonna keep moving boxes around until he collapsed, and by then Boomer might be dead. Dead before he'd even had the chance to move in!

The tragedy of it catapulted me into the moving van. I had to help! I had to save him!

When I got to his side to shove a box forward, the poor boy was so worn out that he just moved aside and let me take over. Mr. Jojo didn't want me to help, and explained it thoroughly with a very colorful speech, but at least I'd saved Boomer. I'd been in the moving van all of three minutes when his dad sent him off to help his brothers out.

I chased him up the walkway, and that's when everything changed. You see, I caught up to him and grabbed his arm and tried to stop him so maybe we could play a little before he got stuck doing work and the next thing I knew he was holding my hand, looking straight into my eyes.

My heart stopped. It just stopped beating. And for the first time in my life, I had that feeling. You know, like when the world is moving all around you, beneath you, _inside_ you, and you're floating. Floating in midair. And the only thing keeping you from drifting away is the other person's eyes. They're connected to yours by some invisible force, and they hold you fast while the rest of the world swirls and twirls and falls completely away.

I almost got my first kiss that day. I'm sure of it. But then my sisters came up and ruined everything. I was a little disappointed that I hadn't been able to do much more with Boomer, but then Mr. Jojo allowed him to guide me around their new house! Unfortunately, Boomer wasn't much of a tour guide as he hid in the bathroom for most of the time.

I was waiting for him to come out when his older brother, Brick, saw me in the hallway. He reminded me a lot of Blossom, and that made him look mature and smart in my eyes, so I told him what was going on and asked for his help. He was happy to oblige.

"Hey, baby brother!" he called, rattling the bathroom door knob, "Your girlfriend wants to see you! Whatsa matter? Afraid she's got cooties?" Okay, so maybe he wasn't _exactly_ like Blossom, but he did give off a similar vibe.

I didn't wanna embarrass Boomer like that. I yanked on his arm and told him to stop, but he wouldn't, so I finally just left.

I found my dad talking to Mr. Jojo outside. The Professor had given him the beautiful Bundt cake that we were supposed to have for dessert. But now that it was in Mr. Jojo's possession, all I could do was eat up the smells as the two men talked.

After that, Dad and I went home. It was very strange. I hadn't gotten to play with Boomer at all. All I knew was that his eyes were a dizzying blue, he had brothers who were not to be trusted, and that he'd almost kissed me.

I fell asleep that night thinking about the kiss the might have been. What did a kiss feel like, anyways? I knew it had to be different from the one the Professor gave me at bedtime. The same species, maybe, but a radically different beast, to be sure. Like a wolf and a whippet – only science would put them on the same tree. At least, that's what Blossom said.

Looking back on the second grade, I like to think that it was partly scientific curiosity that made me chase after that kiss, but to be honest, it was probably more those blue eyes. All through second and third grade I couldn't seem to stop myself from following him, sitting by him, just wanting to be near him.

By fourth grade I'd learned to control myself in the least. The sight of him – the thought of him, more so – still sent my heart humming, but my legs stayed put. I watched and thought and dreamed.

Then in the fifth grade Princess Morbucks came into the picture. Princess Morbucks is a ninny. A whiny, gossipy, backstabbing ninny, who says one thing to one person and the opposite to another. Now that we're in junior high, she's the undisputed diva of drama, but even back in elementary school she knew how to put on a performance. Especially when it came to P.E.

I never saw her doing laps or calisthenics. Ever. She passed the class with bribes and compliments and there was nothing anything could do to stop it. The only muscles she exercised regularly were the ones around her mouth, and those she worked out nonstop. If there was an Olympic contest for talking, Princess Morbucks would win the platinum hands down.

What bugged me about it wasn't the fact that she got out of P.E., even though I sorta sucked too, but what bugged me was that anyone who bothered to look would know that it wasn't her supposed asthma or weak ankles or "delicacy" that stopped her from participating.

It was her hair. She had mountains of it, twisted this way or that, clipped, crimped, or curled. The Three C's as she called it. It didn't matter how she styled it; it was always puffy and frizzy and in two ponytails on either side of her head. And on the days she let it down, she'd shimmy and cuddle inside it like a blanket, so that the only thing you could see was her pointy nose.

My solution to Princess was to ignore her, which worked just dandy until about halfway through the school year when I saw her holding hands with Boomer.

My Boomer. The one who was still embarrassed about holding my hand two days before second grade. The one who we still too shy to say much more than a hello to me.

The one who was still walking around with my first kiss.

How could Princess have wormed her hand into his? That pushy little heiress had no business hanging onto him like that!

Boomer looked over his shoulder from time to time as they walked, and he was looking at _me_. At first I thought he was saying he was sorry, but then it dawned on me – he needed my help. Princess was too delicate to shake off, too swirly to be pushed away. She'd unravel and start whining and that'd be too embarrassing for Boomer. That wasn't a job that a boy could do gracefully. This was a job for a girl.

I didn't bother checking around for other candidates – I had her off him in two seconds flat. I don't know what get me so aggressive at that point. I guess Buttercup sorta rubbed off on me. Boomer ran away the minute he was free, but not Princess.

She came at me. She scratched and pulled and twisted anything she could get her hands on, telling me that Boomer was _hers_ and she wasn't going to let him go just like that. In all honesty, I didn't fight back much because I'd been told before that I could, in fact, do major damage to someone and I was just too generous to get Princess sent to the hospital.

However, I wasn't too generous to give her a piece of my mind. I think I called her every name in the book. Every one of 'em. I think I gave her some bad psychological problems that day. I felt so terribly guilty that I let my feelings get the best of me. I tried to apologize, but she just stuck her palm out at me, telling me not to bother.

In the end, Princess went home went home in her limo, complaining that her life indeed sucks while I told my side of things to the principal. Principal Cavadini is a sturdy woman who probably secretly appreciates the value of a swift kick well placed, and although she told me that it would be better if I let other people work out on their own dilemmas, she definitely understood about Princess and her hair and told me she was glad I had the self-control of not breaking any of the girl's limbs.

Princess was back the next morning with her two puffs of hair and, of course, she got everyone whispering about me, but they quickly shushed with a death glare from either of my sisters. I chose to ignore them. The facts spoke for themselves. Boomer didn't go anywhere near her for the rest of the year.

That's not to say Boomer held _my _hand after that, but he did start being a little friendlier to me. Especially in the sixth grade when Mr. Paulsen sat us next to each other in the third row back.

Sitting next to Boomer was nice. _He_ was nice. He'd say Hi, Bubbles to me every morning and once in a while I'd catch him looking at me. He'd always blush and turned back to his work, making me smile. He was so shy. And so cute!

A little while later, Mr. Paulsen sat me behind him. Mr. Paulsen had this detention policy about spelling, where if you missed more than seven out of twenty five words you'd spend either lunch or after school inside with him writing the words you misspelled over and over again.

The pressure of detention made Boomer panic. And although it bothered my conscience, I leaned in and gave him the answers. His hair was soft and smelled like blueberries. I wondered how he got it so soft. What kind of shampoo did he use? Not many boys had hair as soft as his. My mind then wandered off to his eyes. How does a boy with such buoyant blond hair have such pretty, dark lashes? You don't see that very often.

I thought about asking Mr. Paulsen about the connection between eyelashes and hair when we were discussing the anatomy, but I didn't. Instead, I spent the year whispering spelling words, sniffing blueberries, and wondering if I was ever going to get my kiss.

**XXX**

_So who can guess where I got the names for Mr. Paulsen and Principal Cavadini? It's sorta obvious._

_I'm such a procrastinator. GODDAMN MYSELF. I just seriously, like, love the idea of this and I had to get started on it. SORRY GUYS. I KNOW I HAVEN'T REALLY FINISHED ANY OF MY OTHER STORIES._

_But trust me, I will. I just wanna get this one out. I've also required this thing that the entire fanfiction universe believes is a myth. _

_A LIFE. *gasp*_

_So please, read and review if you want me to continue. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Title –** Flipped

**Summary – **[Based on the book] They first met at the age of seven. Boomer was horrified. Bubbles was smitten. However, now in eighth grade, their feelings for each other seem to flip in a way they never thought possible.

**Pairing(s) – **Blues (with possible Reds and Greens)

**Rating – **T, because of _slight_ cursing.

**Status –** Multi-Chapter; Ongoing

**Important Notes –** Be sure to know that some scenes and dialogue had been altered to fit the characters' personalities. But the events in general will be the same.

– Oh, and, uh, the answer to the supposed hardest riddle ever is in this chapter. Sorry, lol. You could find it anywhere on the internet anyways.

– Yeah, 8th grade stuff begins in this chapter.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own the Powerpuff Girls or Flipped. Craig McCracken and Wendelin Van Draanen do.

**3 – Buddy, Beware!**

**BOOMER**

Seventh grade brought changes, alright, but the biggest change didn't happen at school – it happened at home. Granddad Lucifer came to live with us. He was given the nickname "Him" for whatever reason, but it just seemed to click. He was a cross dresser, and still is, which creeps me out to this day.

At first it was kinda weird because none of us really knew him. Except Mojo, of course. And although he's spent the past year and a half trying to convince us he's a cool dude, from what I can tell, the thing he likes to do best is tell riddles. In a ridiculously high pitched voice, too. And I'm talking higher than Bubbles' voice.

The riddles are incredibly hard. And there was one time where it took us about three months to figure one out. _One_, dammit. It was a supposedly "popular" riddle, and he scorned us for weeks. The riddle was, "I turn polar bears white and I will make you cry. I make guys have to pee and girls comb their hair. I make celebrities look stupid and normal people look like celebrities. I turn pancakes brown and make your champagne bubble. If you squeeze me, I'll pop. If you look at me, you'll pop. Can you guess the riddle?"

No, I could not guess the _goddamn_ riddle. Could you believe it was pressure!? _Pressure_! THE EASIEST FREAKING THING ON THE PLANET AND IT TOOK SO LONG. I was so mad, and then Him told me, "It's the _pressure_ that's making you angry. See what I did there?"

No, I did not see what you did there. And I don't _want_ to.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being obsessed with riddles – other than the fact that it's unbelievably annoying – but it just seems so…unusual. Mojo said he jokes around like that because of our deceased grandma. From what I've heard, they were like two grown, creepy children. Her nickname was "Her." What a normal family I have.

He never really talks about Grandma, and that's something he never really discussed with me. As a matter of fact, we never really discussed anything – without any annoying-ass riddles – up until a few months ago when Bubbles ended up smack dab on the front of the newspaper.

Now, Bubbles did not end up on the front page of _Townsville Times_ for saving a cat or donating to the needy or whatever else, like you might think. Mo, my friend, she got front page coverage for refusing to climb out of a sycamore tree.

Not that I could tell a sycamore from a maple or a _birch_ for that matter, but Bubbles, of course, knew what kind of tree it was and passed on that knowledge to every creature in her wake.

So this tree, this _sycamore_ tree, was up the hill on a vacant lot on Collier street, and it was massive. Massive and ugly. It was twisted and gnarled and bent, and I kept expecting the thing to blow over in the wind.

One day last year, I'd finally had enough of her yakking about that stupid tree. I came right out and told her that it was not a magnificent sycamore, it was, in reality, the ugliest tree known to man. And you know what she said? She came out with the disappointed puppy dog eyes and claimed that I was visually challenged. Visually challenged! This from the girl whose house is the scourge of the neighborhood.

Almost literally, too. They've got bushes growing over windows, weeds sticking out all over the place, and a barnyard's worth of animals running amuck. The only pleasant gardening area was in the front yard. And of these animals, I'm talking dogs, cats, chickens, even snakes. I swear to God, her sisters have a boa constrictor. Buttercup and Butch ganged up and dragged me to watch it eat a live rat when we were about ten. The thing gave me nightmares for months.

Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about someone's backyard, but the Utoniums' really bugged Mojo big time, and he channeled his frustration into _our _yard. He said it was our neighborly duty to show them what a yard's supposed to look like. So while Buttercup's busy plumping her boa, I'm having to mow and edge our yard, and sweep the walkways and _gutter_, which is a little overboard if you ask me.

And you'd think with the blonde flower girl and smart scientist dad who both know everything there is to freaking know about plants and soil and crap would fix it up, but no. According to the girls, he spends all his time down in his lab, concocting (gosh, that's a funny word) several experiments and whatnot. His inventions don't seem like anything special to me, but judging by the price tags at garage sales, he must think quite a lot of them. Mojo and my brothers always say the same thing: "The world would be a much better place if he just fixed that yard."

Mojo and Professor Utonium do talk some. Mojo has the slightest, teeniest shred of sympathy for the man, with him single and raising three girls and all.

Whatever. Maybe Bubbles' aesthetic abilities have been permanently screwed up by the fact that she grew up motherless and none of this is her fault, but she always thought of that sycamore as God's gift to our little corner of the universe.

Back in the third and fourth grades, she and her sister Buttercup would clown around and swing on the branches while Blossom sat under it, reading some really thick book. Bubbles'd would be hanging around, ready to fall and break every bone in her body, while we were waiting at the stoplight and Mojo'd shake his head and bluntly state, "If I ever see one of you boys on that monstrous thing they call a tree I will amputate every one of your limbs so you won't be able to break them."

Butch would whine and stare longingly at the tree and complain, "But it looks so _fun_."

Brick would roll his eyes, saying, "As if I'd ever do something that stupid." I just slumped down in my seat, praying that the light would change before Bubbles could squeal my name for the world to hear.

I did try to climb it back in the fifth grade once. It was the day after Bubbles'd rescued my kite from its mutant toy-eating foliage. She climbed _miles_ up to get it, and when she came back down, she was actually very cool about it. She didn't hold my kite hostage or pucker her lips like I thought she would. She simply handed it over and backed away.

I was relieved, but I felt like such a weenie. When I'd seen where the kite ended up, I was sure it was a goner. Not Bubbles. She basically flew up and got it down in no time. Man, it was embarrassing.

So I made a mental picture of how she'd climbed. The next day I set to outdo her by at least two branches. I made it past the crook, up a few limbs, and then – just to see how I was doing – I looked down.

Mis-take! It felt like I was on top of the Empire State Building without a bungee. I tried looking up to where my kire had been, but it was no use. I was indeed a tree-climbing weenie.

Then junior high came and my dream of a Bubbles-free world shattered. I had to take the bus with my brothers and the three you-know-whos also did. I didn't really mind Blossom, and even Buttercup was better company! But Bubbles was just something else.

And then she starts climbing. The girl is in the seventh grade and she's climbing a tree. And why does she do it? So she can yell down at us that the bus is five! Four! Three blocks away! Blow-by-blow traffic watch from a tree – what every kid in junior high feels like hearing in the morning.

She tried to get me to go up there with her, too. "Boomer, c'mon! You won't believe the colors! It's magnificent! Boomer, you've gotta come up here!"

Yeah, I could just hear it: "Boomer and Bubbles sittin' in a tree…" Was I ever going to leave the second grade behind?

One morning I was specifically not looking up when out of nowhere she jumps down and almost knocks me over. I dropped my bag and wrenching my neck, and that was it. I decided to wait for the bus a few blocks over, and from there I would go to school.

Brick give me this judgmental look when I got onto the bus, probably thinking I was making a big deal out of nothing. Whatever. He'd be too busy ogling at Blossom to really notice anything.

But anyways, that took care of the rest of seventh grade and almost all of eighth grade, too, until one day a few months ago. That's when I heard the commotion on the street where the bus stop is, and there were some big trucks parked around there. There were some men shouting stuff up at Bubbles, who was, of course, still perched on the tree about five stories high.

All the other kids, our siblings included, gathered around the tree, too, and I could hear them telling her to come down. Her sisters were the most concerned. She was fine, however – that was obvious to anyone with a pair of ears – but I still couldn't figure out what they were all arguing about.

I trudged up the hill, and as soon as I got a good look at what the men were holding I knew instantly what was making Bubbles refuse to come outta that tree.

Chain saws.

Don't get me wrong here, okay? The tree was an ugly mutant tangle of gnarly branches. The girl arguing with those men was Bubbles – the world's most pro-Earth, tree-hugging, innocent little girl. But all of a sudden my stomach completely bailed on me. Bubbles loved that tree. Stupid as it was, she did, and cutting it down would be like cutting her heart out.

Everyone tried to talk her down. Even me. But she said she wasn't coming down, not ever, and then she tried to talk us _up_. "Boomer, please! Come up here with me. They won't cut it down if we're all up here!"

For a second I considered it. But then the bus arrived and I talked myself out of it. It wasn't my tree and, as much as she liked to think it was, it wasn't Bubbles' either.

We boarded the bus and left her behind. Buttercup couldn't stop grumbling about how much of a stupid hippie Bubbles was for doing that. She never really was good at voicing her worry. Blossom did the exact opposite, every now and then questioning if Bubbles was okay and if they'd cut the tree with her still in it.

School was pretty much a waste, anyway. I couldn't seem to stop thinking about her, same as Blossom. Was she still up there? Were they going to arrest her?

When the bus dropped us off that afternoon, Bubbles was gone and so was half of the tree. The top branches, the place my kite had been stuck, Bubbles' favorite rest – they were all gone.

My brothers and I watched them work for a while, the chain saws gunning at full throttle, smoking as they chewed through wood. The tree looked lopsided and naked, and after a few minutes I had to get outta there. It was like watching someone dismember a body, and for the first time in years, I felt like crying. _Crying_. And over a stupid tree that I hated.

I went home and tried to shake it off, but I kept wondering, Should I have gone up the tree with her? Would it've made any difference? I thought of calling Bubbles and telling her I was sorry they cut it down, but I didn't. It would've been too, I dunno, weird.

She didn't show up at the bus stop the next morning either, and didn't ride the bus home that afternoon. Her sisters seemed quiet.

Then that night, right before dinner, Him summoned me to the living room. He didn't call me as I was walking on by – that would've bordered on friendliness. What He did was talk to Mojo, who talked to me. "If I had known what he wanted you for, do you possibly think I would be here staring at you in this manner?" Mojo looked at me with a frown, almost irritatingly. I blinked. "Um, okay."

Well, great. The nearly red-skinned man has had almost a year and a half to get acquainted, and He chooses now to get to know me. But I couldn't exactly blow him off.

Him's got real meaty hands. I swear to God, they're almost like goddamn claws. What makes you notice this is His wedding ring. That thing's never coming off. A few more of those stupid pink cupcakes he bakes and that ring's gonna amputate his finger completely.

When I went to see him, his big claws of hands were folded neatly over the newspaper on his lap. I awkwardly started, "Um, Grandpa? You wanted to see me?"

"Have a seat, son."

Son? That strangely high-and-low pitched voice of his only made it sound creepier. I sat in the chair opposite of him and waited.

"Tell me about your friend Bubbles Utonium."

"_Bubbles_? She's not exactly my friend…"

"Mm, and why is _that_?" He asked. Calmly. Almost as if he had prior knowledge to the subject.

I started to justify it, then stopped myself and questioned, "Why do you want to know?"

He opened the paper and pressed down on the crease, and that's when I realized that Bubbles Utonium had made the front page of _Townsville Times_. There was a huge photo of her on the tree surrounded by a fire brigade and policemen and then some smaller photos I couldn't make out well. "Can I see that?"

Instead of handing it over – like a nice person would do – he folded it up and kept it in his lap. "Pray tell, why isn't she your friend, Boomer?"

"Because she's…" I shook my head and said, "You'd have to know Bubbles."

"I'd positively like to."

"What? Why?"

"Because the girl's got some sugar in her, and you know how much I like sweets. Why don't you invite her over sometime?"

"Sugar? Him, you don't understand! That girl is a royal _pain_. She's a show-off, eco-freak, and clingy beyond belief!"

Him just grinned all the while. "Is that so?"

"Yes! That's absolutely so! And she's been stalking me since the second grade!"

He furrowed his brow. "They've lived here that long?"

"I think they were all born here!"

He gave me a playful frown. "You should be more grateful. A girl like that doesn't live next door to everyone, you know."

"Lucky them!"

Him studied me motionlessly, long and hard. I said, "What?" but he didn't flinch. He just kept staring at me, and I couldn't take it. I had to look away.

Keep in mind; this was the first full conversation I'd ever had with Him. This was the first time He'd ever made an effort to talk about something other than those damned riddles. And does he want to get to know me? Nope! He wants to know about Bubbles!

I couldn't just stand up and leave, though that's what I felt like doing. I just had a feeling that He'd completely give up on me if I did. Maybe even stop telling me riddles. And while I would be relieved, it still felt bad.

When I looked back at him, He was holding the newspaper in His cla – hands, gesturing it to me. "Read this. Without prejudice. " Him didn't look fazed. He just sat there with a sinister-looking smile. It kinda creeped me out.

I took the paper, and when He looked at the door and then to me, I knew I'd been dismissed.

By the time I got up to my room, I was mad. I slammed the door and flopped on the bed as I thought of my sorry excuse of a grandfather. I shoved the newspaper in the bottom drawer of my desk. Like I needed to know more about Bubbles Utonium.

At dinner, Mojo shot me and Him suspicious looks. He didn't seem to have any more riddles left to share, which is a good thing because I might've thrown the salt shaker at him.

My brothers were all business as usual. Brick matured since those olden days. He always ate things a certain way at dinner; biggest piece of meat first, taking a steady sip of his drink between each bite. Butch had to be the opposite. Whatever his hand grabbed was what he scarfed down his throat, most of the time not even bothering to chew, and when he did you'd better shield yourself or you'd end up covered in Butch spit. After eating, that's when he'd chug down his drink in one gulp. Those two couldn't be any more different.

Mojo began rambling on about his irrelevant pet peeve of the day. Most of the time, my brothers would vacantly pretend to listen so that he wouldn't start yet _another_ lecture on how they need to give him the respect he needs and blah, blah, blah. But this time, they weren't. Instead the bastards kept staring between Him and I like a tennis match. Like they were trying to pick up what we were miffed at each other about.

Not like he had anything to be miffed at _me_ about. What had I done to him anyway? Nothing. Nada. But he was, and I could tell. I avoided just looking in His general direction until about halfway through dinner, when I sneaked a peek.

He was studying me, alright. And even though it wasn't a mean stare, or a hard stare, it was, you know, firm. Focused. It weirded me out. What was His deal?

I didn't look at him again. Or my brothers. I just went back to eating and pretended to listen to Mojo. And the first chance I got, I excused myself and trudged up to my room.

I was planning to call Mitch or other friend, Mike, like I usually do when I'm bent about something. I even punched in their numbers, but I don't know. I hung up both times.

…

Bubbles wasn't at the bus stop the next morning. Or Friday morning. She was at school, but you wouldn't know if you didn't actually look. She didn't whip her hand up to get the attention of a teacher like she had anything to prove anymore or scramble through the halls to get to class. She didn't spend free period at the garden taking care of her beloved sunflowers or challenge the kids who cut in the milk line. She just sat. Quiet.

I told myself I should be glad about it – it was like she wasn't even there, and isn't that what I'd always wanted? But still, I felt bad. About her tree, about how she hurried off to eat lunch in the library by herself, about how her eyes were red around the edges. I wanted to tell her, Man, I'm sorry about your sycamore tree, but the words never came out.

By the middle of next week, they'd finished taking down the tree. They cleared the lot and even tried to pull up the stump, but that sucker wouldn't budge, so they wound up grinding it down into the dirt.

Bubbles still didn't show up at the bus stop, and by the end of the week I'd learned from Mike that she was being driven by the Professor. He said he'd seen her step out of the car twice that week.

I figured she'd be back. It was a long ride out to Townsville Junior High, and once she got over the tree, she'd be back on the bus, laughing and smiling with her sisters. I even caught myself looking for her. Not on the lookout, just looking.

The one day it rained I thought for sure she'd be on the bus, but no. Mike said he saw her in the car with a bright blue rain jacket, and in math I noticed her jeans were still soaked from the knee down.

After math let out, I started to run after her and tell her that she oughta try riding the bus again, but I stopped myself in the nick of time. What was I thinking? That Bubbles wouldn't take a little friendly concern and completely misinterpret it? Whoa now, buddy, beware! Better just to leave it alone.

After all, the last thing I needed was for Bubbles Utonium to think I missed her.

**4 – The Sycamore Tree**

**BUBBLES**

I loved watching my father invent. Or ather, I loved listening to him talk while he invents. The words come out bright and enthusiastic. Sometimes I think he'd wet his pants out of excitement.

His lab was large. Covered in completely white tiled walls and floors with tables and racks wherever you could see. No one really liked to point this out for fear that the Professor's esteem would fall to an all-time low, but almost all of his greatest creations had been made by accident. As in, whoops-I-tripped-and-knocked-this-vile-into-the-po t accidents.

But it didn't matter. Those inventions earned him great money when he decided to auction them off. It made him so happy to see that what he made was worth something, and that brought a smile to my face.

When we were little, the Professor would allow my sisters and me to watch him blend around some chemicals and make a special mixture as long as we'd be quiet. Blossom was obedient. Buttercup and I don't do quiet easily, but later we'd learned that after a five or ten minutes without a peep, _he'd_ start talking.

I've learned a lot about my dad that way. He told me all sorts of stories about what he'd done when he was my age and other things, too – like how he found his passion for science, and how he wished he'd finished college.

When I got a little older, he still talked about himself and his childhood, but he also started asking questions about me. What were we learning in school? What book was a currently reading? What did I think about this or that.

Then one time he surprised me and asked about Boomer. Why was I so crazy about Boomer?

I told him about his eyes and his hair and the way his cheeks blush, but I don't think I explained it very well. When I was done, the Professor shook his head and told me in soft, heavy words that I needed to start looking at the whole landscape.

I didn't really know what he meant by that, but it made me want to argue back. How could he possibly understand about Boomer? He didn't even know him!

But this was not an arguing spot. Those were scattered throughout the house, but not here in the lab.

We were both quiet for a record breaking amount of time before he kissed my forehead and said, "Proper lighting is everything, Bubbles."

Proper lighting? What was that supposed to mean? I sat there wondering, but I was afraid that by asking I'd be admitting that I wasn't mature enough to understand, and for some reason it felt obvious. Like I _should_ understand.

After that, he didn't talk so much about events as he about ideas. And the older I got, the more rational he seemed to get.

Mostly the things he talked about floated around me, but once in a while something would happen and make me understand exactly what he meant. He may have been a man of science, but he always seemed to have the most meaningful symbolism. He'd told me how a cow itself is just a cow, and how a meadow itself is just grass and trees, and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of light, but put them together and you've got magic.

I understood what he was saying, but I never _felt_ what he was saying until one day when I was up in the sycamore tree.

The sycamore tree had been on top of the hill for what seemed like forever. It was on a big vacant lot, giving shade in the summer and a place for birds to nest in the spring. I'd always played in the tree, but I didn't become a serious climber until the fifth grade when I went up to rescue a kite that was stuck in its branches.

I've flown kites before and I know – sometimes they're gone forever, and sometimes they're just waiting in the middle of the road for you to go and rescue them. Kites can be lucky or they can be ornery. I've had both kinds, and a lucky kite if definitely worth chasing after.

This kite looked lucky to me. It wasn't anything fancy, just an old-fashioned diamond with blue and black stripes. But it stuttered along in a friendly kind of way, and when it dive-bombed, it seemed to do so from exhaustion. Ornery kites dive-bomb out of spite. They don't get exhausted because they won't stay up long enough to poop out. Thirty feet up and they just sort of smirk at you crash for the fun of it.

So Talking Dog and I ran up the hill, and after scouting out the road, the dog barked and told me it was up in the tree. At first I couldn't see it, but soon enough I did. It flashed a brilliant blue that almost matched Boomer's eyes.

It was a long way up, but I thought I'd give it a shot. I shimmied up the trunk, took a shortcut across the slide, and started climbing. Talking Dog kept a good eye on me, barking me along and encouraging me, and soon I was higher than I'd ever been. But still, the kite seemed far away.

Then, below me I noticed Boomer coming around the corner and through the vacant lot. And I could tell by the way he was looking up that this was _his_ kite.

What a lucky, _lucky_ kite this was turning out to be!

"Can you climb that high?" he called up to me.

"Sure!" I called back. And up, up, up I went!

The branches were strong, with just the right intersection to make the climbing easy. And the higher I got, the more amazed I was with the view. I'd never seen anything like it! The way the sunset glazed over the small, neighborhood houses in a canvas of yellows, oranges, and pinks just mesmerized me for a second. Then the birds from some nearby trees chirped and flutter away while the sounds of children's laughter filled my perception in a chorus of lovely resonances.

For just a single moment, I'd forgotten that I was miles up in a tree, until Boomer called out again, "Are you stuck?" I slightly jumped in surprise, and shouted a no back to him before grabbing onto the strings of the kite and carefully pulling it out. I backed up a little and then worked my way down. I could see him circling the tree to see if I was alright.

Once I touched the ground, the heady feeling I'd had in the tree had been replaced by the heady realization that Boomer and I were alone. My heart was positively racing as I held out the kite to him. Then I felt Talking Dog nudge me and mutter my name. I gave him a questioning look, and then I felt a breeze.

I felt a breeze where it should not have been felt. I grabbed my jeans in the back, and that's when I'd realized that I ripped the seat of my pants wide open.

Boomer gave a little nervous laugh, so I could tell he knew, and for once my face was the one that was beet red. He took the kite and ran off, leaving me to inspect the damage.

I did eventually get over the embarrassment of my jeans, but I never got over the view. I kept thinking of what it felt like to be up high in that tree. And I wanted to see it, to feel it, again. And again.

It wasn't long before I got over my fear of heights and found the spot that became _my_ spot. I could sit there for hours, just looking at the world. Sunsets were amazing. Sometimes, instead of the normal pink that I'd first seen, they'd be a purple with orange tinted clouds.

It was magic.

And I started marveling at how I was feeling both humble and majestic. How was that possible? How could I be so full of peace and wonder? How could this simple tree make me feel so complex? So _alive_.

I went up the tree every chance I got. Which became almost every day in junior high, because the bus picks up on the street right in front of the sycamore tree.

I tried to convince the kids at the bus stop to climb up with me, but all of them said they didn't want to get dirty. Even Mitch. Turn down a chance to feel magic for fear of a little dirt? I couldn't believe it. I kept quiet about this to the Professor. I knew he would tell me to stop, but he'd still understand.

One day, I found myself talking to the tree. A whole conversation, just me and the tree. And on the climb down I felt like bawling my eyes out. Why didn't I have someone real to talk to? Why didn't I have a best friend like my sisters did? Sure there were the kids I knew at school, but none of them were close friends. They'd have no interest in climbing the tree. In smelling the sunshine.

That night after dinner, the Professor went back into the lab to continue working with chemicals. The lab was cold that night and the white walls brightened the room. I grabbed a sweater and sat on a chair right beside him.

After a few minutes he said, "What's on your mind, sweetheart?"

In all the times I'd sat down here, he'd never asked me that. I look at him but couldn't seem to speak.

He mixed two liquids together, and very softly he said, "Talk to me."

I sighed so heavily it surprised even me. "I understand the way you see things."

He tried kidding me. "Mind explaining that to your sisters?"

"Really, Daddy. I understand it. You've been fascinated with the world and its functions since you were younger than me and you became a scientist to discover new things about it and relish in everything that you find." I didn't even realize how Blossom-ish I sounded. He smiled at me.

"How'd you figure it out?"

I told him about the sycamore tree. About the view and the sounds and the colors and the wind, and how being up so high felt like flying. Like magic.

He didn't interrupt me once, and when my confession was through, I looked at him and whispered, "Would you climb up there with me?"

He thought about it for a while, but then smiled again and said, "I'm not much of a climber anymore, Bubbles, but I'll give it a shot, sure. How about this weekend?"

I was so excited that night that I barely slept five minutes. Saturday was just around the corner. I couldn't wait!

The next morning I raced to the bus stop extra early and climbed the tree. I caught the sun rainy through the clouds, sending streaks of fire from one end of the world to the other. And I was in the middle of making a mental list of what I would show the Professor when I heard a noise below.

I looked down, and parked right beneath ME were two trucks. Big trucks. One of them was towing a long, empty trailer and the other had a cherry picker on it - the kind use to work on overhead power lines and telephone poles.

There were four men standing around, drinking from thermoses, and I almost called out to them, "I'm sorry, but you can't park there, that's a bus stop!" But before I could, one of the men reached into the truck and started pulling out tools. Gloves. Ropes. A chain. Earmuffs. And then chain saws. Three chain saws.

And I still didn't get it. I kept looking around for what it was they could possibly be there to cut down. Then one of the kids who rides the bus showed up and started talking to them, and pretty soon he was pointing at me.

One of the men called, "Hey!" You'd better come down here. We gotta take this thing down."

I held on to the branch tight, because it suddenly felt as though I might fall. I managed to choke out, "The _tree_?"

"Yeah, now come on down."

"But who told you to cut it down?"

"The owner!"

"But _why_?"

Even from forty feet up, I could see him scowl. "Because he's gonna build himself a house, and he can't very well do that with this tree in the way. Now come on, girl, we've got work to do!"

By that time most of the kids had gathered for the bus. They weren't saying anything to me, just looking up at me and turning from time to time to talk to each other. Then my sisters got there. They were staring wide eyed at me.

"BUBBLES!" I heard Buttercup's infuriated cry, "It's a _TREE_ FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

"Please come down!" Blossom shouted a little more soothingly. "You might get hurt!" I resisted the urge to call her 'mother' because if I did, that's when she'd get all Buttercup-like.

And finally, Boomer and his brothers arrived. Butch looked utterly confused. He went to grab Buttercup's forearm and asked her what was going on. She started screaming at him, presumably about me. But she looked worried, and I was kind of surprised when he managed to calm her down and patted her shoulder.

Brick didn't look as lost as the other two boys, but I could tell he was when he predictably went over to Blossom and started talking with her. He let her rant continuously about how concerned she was.

Boomer was staring at me blankly. I tried not to meet and his eyes and instead looked for the bus over some rooftops. Sure enough, there it was, less than four blocks away.

My heart was crazy with panic. I didn't know what to do! I couldn't just leave and let them cut down the tree. I cried, "You can't cut it down! You just can't!"

One of the men shook his head and said, "I am this close to calling the police. You are trespassing and obstructing progress on a contracted job. Now are you going to come down or are we going to cut you down?"

The bus was now three blocks away. I'd never never missed school for any other reason than legitimate illness, but I knew in my heart I was going to miss my ride. "You're gonna have to cut me down!" I yelled. Then I had an idea. They'd never cut it down if all of us were up here. They'd have to listen. "Hey, guys!" I called down to them, "Get up here with me! They can't cut it down if we're all up here! Mitch! Elmer! Mike! C'mon, you guys, don't let them do this!"

They just stood there, staring up at me. My sisters gaped.

I could the bus now one block away. "Come on, you guys! You don't have to come up this high, just a little ways. Please!"

The bus blasted up and pulled to the curb in front of the trucks. When the doors folded open, one by one my classmates climbed on board. Blossom and Buttercup looked at me through the windows until the bus rode off.

What happened after that is a bit of a blur. I remember the neighbors gathering and the police with megaphones. I remember the fire brigade, and some guy saying it was his blasted tree and I'd darn well better get out of it.

Somebody tracked down Ms. Keane, who'd become a caring mother figure in the past few years, and she rushed over from the school. She cried and pleaded and acted not at all the way a sensible mother should've, but I was not coming down. I was not coming down.

Then the Professor came racing up. He jumped out of the white station wagon, and after talking with Ms. Keane for a minute, he got the guy in the cherry picker to give him a lift to where I was. And after that it was all over. I started crying and tried to get him to look out over the rooftops, but he wouldn't. He said no view was worth his little girl's safety.

He took me to work with him because I couldn't stand the distant sound of chainsaws at home. I sat in the station wagon and cried outside the local laboratory.

I must've cried for two weeks straight. Oh, sure, I went to school and functioned the best I could, but didn't go there on the bus. I started riding my bike instead. The Professor offered to drive me, but I said no. My sisters tried to talk to me, but I refused to talk about anything.

Then one evening when I was locked up in my room, the Professor came in holding a pot filled with dirt and something behind his back. He put the pot on the ground between us, still keeping his other arm behind him. "I always liked that tree of yours," he said. "Even before you told me about it."

"It's okay, daddy. I'll get over it."

"No, Bubbles. No, you won't."

I started crying again. "It was just a tree..."

"I never want you to convince yourself of that. You and I both know it's not true."

"But Professor..."

"Bear with me a minute, would you?" He took a deep breath. "I want you to always remember that tree. I want you to remember how you felt when you were up there." He hesitated for a moment, but then showed me what he was hiding.

It was a glowing seed. He put it in my palm. "I made this for you at the lab. Go ahead," he nodded at the pot, "Plant it."

I weakly dug a small hole and softly placed the seed in it. After patting down some dirt on top of it, it started to grow. It was a miniature tree. A miniature sycamore tree. It was mostly artificial, but I didn't care at the moment.

"Don't cry, Bubbles. I want it to help you, not hurt you."

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and gave a mighty sniff. "Thank you, daddy," I choked out, "Thank you."

I placed the pot on my nightstand. It's the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night. And now that I can look at it without crying, I see more than the tree and what being up in its branches meant to me.

I see the day that my view of things around me started changing.

**XXX**

_Well finally. I was going to upload this earlier, but my uncle was hogging the laptop and I couldn't do anything from my Kindle. _

_Anyways, yeah. Review if you want. _

_Seriously though, you should read the book. It's super good. I almost blubbered like a baby when I finished reading it because it was over already. I gave it one go and was done with it in, like, two-three hours total. _

_Until next time, I'M RIA AND YOU'RE READING 'FLIPPED: THE POWERPUFF FANMAKE' ;D_


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